


Return

by Anoki



Series: Tales of Mordaine [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Forced Orgasm, Human/Monster Romance, Intersex, Large insertions, M/M, Master/Pet, Monster - Freeform, Multiple Orgasms, Original Characters - Freeform, Original Species, Sex Magic, Tentacles, Teratophilia, Vaginal Sex, magic deals, mutiple pentration, shadowshifter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-25 18:09:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17730134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anoki/pseuds/Anoki
Summary: Zanarin returns to the ruin to find that perhaps it wasn't really a dream after all...An original work set in one of my worlds.Title Cover here: https://anokibuu.tumblr.com/post/181794118305/title-image-for-a-nsfw-short-story-you-can-find-onThe boys: https://anokibuu.tumblr.com/post/182711039340/a-size-comparison-doodle-for-a-short-story-i-am





	Return

He had not returned home a month before the fever dream. That familiar, eerie voice calling out to him, the sensation of tentacles caressing over bare skin and a deep ache that could not be ignored. He woke in the dark hours of early morning; sweat slicked and tangled among sheets and blankets. 

Alone.

Alone and unbearably aroused.

Zanarin groaned and ground his thighs together, raked a shaky hand back through tousled hair. He stared up at the slanted roof above.

It was an unfamiliar sight still, even after a year of living here.

Ever since Mordaine had been taken, since the purge and fleeing that soon followed he had been forced to live on the grounds of Death's castle. There were others like him; those few who had no family to protect that had decided to lay down their lives to keep those who had fled safe. Who even now protected outposts of survivors and kept their presence hidden.

His role was a step further.

While normally he would be training new palace guards he now did reconnaissance. There were terrible places out there that held his kind, used them for disturbing purposes. He went out and found what information he could and brought it back. His other task involved mapping out safe zones and ensuring that survivors were directed towards them.

If he could find the survivors.

Finding more of your own was difficult when they were so good at getting away. There was not a soul among them now that was not in flight or fight mode and flight was safest against those that had studied and found their weaknesses.

Death could not step far outside of the balance of things, a frustration that showed all too often now that Zanarin worked closely with the deity.

But they did what they could, funneled what resources were available to aiding those that needed it and tried to direct those lost and frightened to places of safety.

Zanarin worked very hard to ensure that.

His last break from it all had been wonderful; even with that strange old keep and bizarre dreams he'd had while staying there. Breaks were important, he knew, to keep from wearing himself down physically, but also mentally. 

He wandered often even while on duty but there was little in the way of pleasure to that sort. A bitter emptiness more often than not.

That and frustration.

A hand ran across the scar that ran over where his right eye once lay and he winced, wrinkled up his nose. Though fully healed it still felt strange to him. Ached on occasion. 

But it had been worth the pain to keep refugees safe. 

His healing was not to the same level as some of the full blooded shadowshifters. If he had just gathered up the eye after, popped it back in, perhaps he would have a functioning one, but he had not had the time for that. To keep fleeing civilians safe had been his priority. 

Even now he was still getting used to wearing a patch and at times, especially when alone, didn’t wear it at all. It was only a courtesy to himself to keep curious people from asking what happened, at least at home and when outside those boundaries, to keep other folk from staring. 

Zanarin shifted and that ache in his lower belly stabbed at him again, reminding him that arousal had not faded. 

“Ridiculous.” He hissed under his breath.

A hand drifted lower, slid through delicate ginger hair and across the heat of his swollen clit, over soft folds. Hells he was already wet. He chewed his bottom lip, stroking along the jut of it, shaking with each touch. He warbled a moan, threw an arm over his face. 

It was almost too much but he couldn’t come.

He kept at it, working himself to the brink but each time he reached the edge it faded, slipped through fingers like sand.

He snarled and squirmed across the sheets, dug his head back. 

By Death’s Mercy he didn’t know what to do. This sort of thing had never been an issue in the past and the continuous ache was nearly worse then the raw need that came with heat. At least with heat he knew that he could get off!

He rolled from bed and paced restlessly, thighs slick with fluid and every brush of them together enough to send sparks up his body. He huffed angrily out his nose and scrubbed at his temples, across his face.

His body was telling him to go. 

Go where? Why did he feel like if he didn’t shift soon he would be stuck in this same restless cycle until he did? That strange man’s face reared up in the back of his mind, the dreams.

He wanted to go to the old keep. 

“Fucking Hells…” He spat and gathered up his clothing. 

It had been just a dream right? Nothing important, nothing to worry about; that was what he had told himself over and over again over the last month. This was proving to be something worrisome.

“I will go-” He declared aloud to himself in the dark of his room, “-And prove that it is nothing.” 

Zanarin dressed quickly; stockings that hooked up around his waist but left his crotch open - splendid for the cold and ease of relieving himself if need be, high waisted pants, a undershirt, tunic, gloves and boots. 

He tossed a cape on and raked his fingers back through his hair till it looked at least a touch tamed. 

“I will be back in no time.” He mused, glancing back at his empty bed mournfully. What he wouldn’t give to climb back in and drift off again.

His shadows gathered around his feet, thoughts focused intently upon the image of the keep. He dropped down, disappearing into shadow, the world dark for a span of several heartbeats before they whisked away and he stood in the dark courtyard. 

It was all much the same save… there were lights in the windows. 

His heart thudded in his chest and he clenched his hands at his sides. Zanarin pushed forward despite fear taking hold in his chest and as he ascended the stairs he thought he could make out the faint sound of strings of music carrying down. The door to the keep was no longer off its hinges and seemed to have been repaired well beyond what should have been possible. Very nearly brand new.

He pushed the door and found it unlocked, swung open. The hall was lit and where once had been dust and debris there were clean halls, repaired furniture. Still an empty place, but more alive then before. 

He followed the sound of music toward the dining hall, his hand lingering on his hilt. Only a fool would come back to a place like this without a weapon and he was far from a fool. 

That massive dining hall was alight with a warm glow both from a massive fire in the hearth and many floating candles far above. Soft music filled the room but there wasn't any sign of a band nor instruments. Zanarin paused in the doorway, eyes wide. 

Magic was not a common thing in Mordaine; full blooded shadowshifters were rarely gifted with the sort of magic one can work outside of the body. Their shadows and healing ability was about it for such things. However, hybrids were at times skilled, especially with making things, as it would seem many of their race had a joy for the act of creating. Those that could often magicked things that made living easier; stone boxes that kept food fresh for days longer then it would otherwise, lights that sprang to life with just a word, pipes that could make for hot water without the need of boiling on the stove. 

All were quite wondrous but all often needed multiple mages to create or needed them to maintain the magic.

What had been done here seemed the work of just one and there it was, sitting at the head of the table, bone head tipped slightly to the side, tall frame sitting upright in a high backed chair. 

If a skeleton could manage a smile it surely was grinning.

Zanarin drew his sword in a swift jerk, banishing it toward the creature. He bared his teeth. 

The beast laughed and leaned back in its chair.

“Come now, Pet, is that any way to greet me?” 

The creature lifted a hand and flicked it. 

Zanarin’s whole body clenched, knees knocking as climax stole over him so hard he near forgot how to breathe. A ragged cry burst forth and his trembling hand lost its grip on the hilt, sword clattering to the floor. He was forced to scramble at the table, sagging across it. Aftershocks shook him and he near sank to his knees. 

“Wha...what have you… you done to me!?” He snarled breathlessly against the pristine grain of the tabletop. 

“Just some simple magic to make sure you will always return to me.” The creature chuckled, long fingers toying along the rim of a glass. “After all, you entered into a blood pact with me when you woke me from my slumber.”

The blood, that droplet of blood smeared across bone. 

 

Fuck. 

Zanarin shuddered, narrowed his eye baleful. “That hardly seems fair.” He snarled. 

“Ah well, such is the way of things sometimes.” The creature sighed and shrugged. “It is hardly fair to be stuck in a body like this, but there are times when we must make do with the hand fate has given us.” 

“What is your name, Pet?” It asked. “You may refer to me as Roslin, or Master. Master has a charming ring to it, don’t you think?” There was a playful lilt to its voice. 

Zanarin gnashed his teeth. 

“My name is Zanarin Vymare, and no, I will not be referring to you as master!.” He spat.

His ire only seemed to amuse Roslin and he laughed again, crooked a finger.  
“Come here.”

He did not quite have full control of his body. Compelled, he stepped back from the table and walked around it on wobbly legs, came to stand before Roslin all but consumed with rage. Trembling with it. 

Roslin reached out and gripped his hip, kneaded it. 

He hummed. 

“Ah, still as lovely as I remember. So shapely, such pretty hair…” He drew Zanarin in closer, forcing him to rest a knee up on one of his thighs. Roslin pet him, palmed along hip and ass with a rumbling purr. His hands smoothed up his sides, hands so big they could wrap around his waist effortlessly. 

Zanarin shuddered. 

“Really, I think you will come to like this arrangement,” Roslin soothed. “Your race is such a delightfully needy one after all and I will not need you here at all times. Just when I need a bit more energy. This body is a bitch to maintain.” 

He snorted and clacked his teeth, the empty sockets holding points of glowing light now and Zanarin could now see where his ‘eyes’ lingered. Zanarin frowned at him. 

“And you need me for energy?” He ground out. 

“Oh yes, my first arrangement apparently went very sour, so I need some insurance to be sure that I get what I need.” Roslin drawled. “Using several different magical arts to make a new body can make things difficult sometimes but as luck would have it, your kind are DELIGHTFUL when it comes to boosting magical properties. Just wonderful.” 

He tipped Zanarin’s chin up, drew a thumb along his bottom lip. “And gods, your lot… are just beautiful and you, Pet, are an absolutely splendid specimen.” 

Heat crept up his face and Zanarin wasn’t sure if it was from anger or flattery. He liked to think it was anger. 

“This arrangement seems more like agreeing to let a tapeworm live in my guts.” Zanarin drawled, deadpan and cold. He was not in the least bit amused.

Roslin clucked his tongue and gripped him closer, toying with the hem of his pants.

“Oh no, think of it more… as mutually beneficial.” He plucked more at the cloth before smoothing his hand down along the curve of a buttock. 

“You give me energy and I, well I will take care of you in my own way.”

Zanarin had a feeling he knew what he meant by that but he did not speak it aloud, snorting. There was not much he could do about this given the power this mage held over him now, but he had never been one to just give up.

“And all you need is the occasional energy…?”

“Yes, simply that.” Roslin purred, playing now with a lock of Zanarin's fiery hair. “Perhaps assisting me with my work when I need it.”

“If your work is something that does not go against mine, then yes, I suppose.” Zanarin decided, brow furrowed. He could work around this. Despite this one's forward ways and inability to ask before taking he had been amicable and didn't seem to be truly dangerous. And if he proved otherwise… well, Zanarin was perfectly happy to use teeth or claw to put a stop to that.

He would play along.

“We shall discuss this, at length.” he declared, a brow arched, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Mn, making deals with me are you?” Roslin laughed but he seemed pleased by his reply all the same. “Why don't we get you out of these constricting clothes…”

He pulled at a glove, working it free from his hand, then the other and Zanarin sighed, finding that being close to Roslin brought some relief from the ache in his gut. The mage made quick work of peeling back his tunic and popping the buttons of his shirt and trousers. 

Roslin purred, nosing at his chest, under his chin. The faint brush of those soft tongues over the contour of pec and along the thrum of his pulse set a fire in his gut.

Gets right to it, doesn't he? Zanarin thought to himself, stifling a moan.

Admittedly he found his attention more than a touch arousing; whether a product of Roslin's tinkering or his own kinks coming to bite him in the ass, he couldn't tell.

Did not linger on the question.

His breath stuttered in his chest, hips popping forward into long fingers brushing between his thighs. Pants were peeled down to his knees and Roslin laughed in delight.

“What in the world are these?” he lightly tugged at the stockings. “Not that I do not like them…”

Zanarin growled, his half off shirt sliding down a shoulder.

“It's the middle of fall, it's cold as fuck!”

“And yet your pretty cunt is uncovered? Delightful!” 

Roslin pulled him in closer, fingers grinding lightly along his flushed clit till muscular thighs quivered and Zanarin was forced to hang on him or fall.

“You're a...a bas...bastard.” he hissed through clenched teeth.

“I am not.” Roslin hummed, “You are just so… distracting.”

Tendrils slid his trousers the rest of the way down, forcing a boot off, Zanarin's leg mostly bared on one side. They forced the pants and boot off the other foot, leaving him in undershirt and stockings and roved the length of a long leg while skilled fingers kept up their light touch.

His style of stealing energy was an odd one, perhaps not really what he was truly doing. Maybe he was just a lech.

His fingers curled, trapped his clit between them and massaged.

Ecstasy shook him and Zanarin snarled, hips jerking into the cup of long fingers. Roslin's dark fingers were coated with fluid and he smeared them along his sex in slow passes through the trembles that followed.

“Such enthusiastic responses.” he purred.

Zanarin panted raggedly, sagged against Roslin's side. Tentacles curled about his face, up into his hair and the slither of them along his inner thigh jolted him. The tip of one slicked between his lips, traced them leisurely.

Roslin was in no rush this time.

He held to him, fingers curious in their touches, mapping his body from lean muscle to each freckle. Roslin's kisses were soft touches of his tendril tongues and they passed over Zanarin's cheek and jaw, along his throat.

“Pet you are beautiful.” 

There he went calling him pet again. Zanarin was tempted to give his invasive tongues a nice chomp but Roslin was pushing one tentacle in, forcing him open and all he managed was a warbled groan.

He would have a very long discussion with this impudent mage once they were done.

Hopefully.

If he could think past the firm glide of that first tendril hitting home and curling about within, if he could manage to focus when another came to join it. 

Roslin kept him firmly trapped against him, massive hands wrapped about his waist, his leg, tentacles that were assuredly his cocks working in and out of his sex relentlessly. He caught up his glass and pressed it to Zanarin's lips; a dark red, strong like port but with a slight sweetness. Warm and mulled as if in preparation for his arrival. Zanarin drank a sip in a haze, then another as Roslin kept his legs well spread, many lengths pumping deep, till he swore they tented his lean belly with each far push.

“Fu...fuck..!” he gasped against the bronzed rim, droplets of wine dribbled down his chin, across his chest.

“Don't waste it, Pet, that is from a very good year.” Roslin chided playfully, sopping it up with a swift pass of his tongues across chin, throat and chest till not a drop remained to wet his skin.

The multiple lengths cork screwed into him with such intensity that Zanarin's legs grew weak, shuddering and shaking uncontrollably. Only Roslin's grip kept him from sinking to the floor. His head rolled forward, face pressed to the mage's chest, breath hot and ragged against his bare skin. 

“You are resilient, Pet, but it looks to me like you are having trouble standing.”

A resounding ‘fuck you’ was just on the tip of Zanarin’s tongue but it came out a garbled moan for Roslin did not pass up any excuse to haul him the rest of the way into his lap. He splayed him wide, his pace picking up and Zanarin choked, writhed in place through a gut clenching burst of ecstasy.

He ground his head back, hands clenched against Roslin's sides. The bastard didn't even stop thrusting through his climax and as if on cue the tip of an unoccupied tendril teased at his backside, peeling him open. Lubrication of some sort smeared against his opening, eased the slim tip in and eagerly it rippled its way up inside. Full again, damnable things writhing within, seeking every sensitive nook and cranny.

How many cocks did one monster need!?

“Fuh...how...nngh!” he ground out, head tipped back against Roslin's dark chest. “...why so...fuck! Why so many!?”

“Hmm?” Roslin purred, tongues wrapping about Zanarin's arms, forcing them up to hold behind his long neck. “Oh, do you mean these?” he thrust them all at once, near short circuiting his splayed plaything.

Zanarin shook helplessly through the throes, ragged breathing washing across tendril like tongues as they caressed and teased.

“For fun.” Roslin crooned darkly, fingers tracing Zanarin's hips and gaze pointedly focused on how his lengths pressed against Zanarin's lean belly. “If I am to be a monster I might as well make the best of it.”

If this man had truly ever been human he supposed they were the sort to over do it when it came to that sort of thing. Zanarin for his part found it difficult to complain.

Harder still with his mouth soon full of tongue, Roslin kissing him deeply, fingers curled beneath Zanarin's chin. 

He groaned around the length of it, lashes fluttering. 

Roslin's thrusts reached a fever pitch, grip tightening. Zanarin felt him reach his peak; a thrum through those strong lengths, a sudden gush that near bloated out his belly.

That alone was enough to shatter him; toes curled and body arched in the glow of firelight.

Rosin did not stop thrusting. His lengths rocked in leisurely; curled and squirmed around each other, prying him open further till those lodged in his sex pulled free and allowed a rush of seed to bubble out in stringy drips.

The freed length ground along Zanarin's labia and up against the aching bead of his clit. He stifled a moan against the dark tongue toying along his mouth, hips twitching helplessly.

“You are most beautiful like this,” Roslin hummed by his ear. “Shuddery and flushed… just lovely.”

“Ngh...shu...shut up.” Zanarin groaned. “Keep f…” he gasped and arched up into Roslin, the tentacle still lodged in his ass thrusting up hard, another frot along his clit in a move so delicious he saw stars. 

“Such language…!” Roslin growled. “But I like the sentiment.” 

Long fingers slid down, tracing through orange hairs, along plush outer labia and then swept up his belly, cupped over ribs and brushed teasing circles about his pebbled nipples.

He stood, catching Zanarin about the middle and splayed him across the tabletop with freckled ass upthrust. He caught up one of his wrists and pinned it to the small of his back.

“if you wish me to keep ‘fucking’ you Pet, I shall happily oblige.”

Zanarin huffed against the tabletop, a low amorous growl rattling in his chest. His hips popped up, seed still dripping from his well used sex. Tendrils pushed between his lips, thicker this time and he realized that Roslin had twisted them together, making for a very thick, knotted piece.

Zanarin gulped, claws scraping the polished tabletop, coiled length pressed to his sex, pushing just enough to ease its way in. 

The swirled texture was bizarre, cork screwing inward and Zanarin arched, soft undershirt spilling across his back, down his shoulders. Roslin had yet to yank it off and dug his fingers into the fabric. Zanarin was held tight to the table by the mage’s grip, unable to squirm away.

Roslin sank in slowly, cramming him full once more. Zanarin's thighs shook, ragged breath punctured by moans and broken curses.

“ if… if you're going to keep calling me pet,” Zanarin snarled, “Then fuck me properly.”

He swiveled his hips back, licked his lips as a quiver of pleasure shook him.

Roslin rumbled, his grip tightening on his wrist and his other hand braced on a hip. 

“Is that your wish?”

“Yes.” Zanarin panted, hips still trying to roll back. 

If he was to be a pet while here then he would damn well get fucked till fully satisfied. He had no patience for bullshit. 

His answer was the resounding smack of their hips colliding, lengths driven deep. He gasped raggedly, given no time to prepare himself once Roslin took up his savage new pace.

Hells...maybe this wouldn't be a bad situation after all? How often was he too busy to take a lover, or too in the thick of it to risk what his death would do to them?

Zanarin moaned, rocked across the table by Roslin’s eager pounding, held in place by the ferocity of his grip. The table, massive and study that it was, shook beneath the vigor of Roslin's rutting and the glass of wine spilled, goblet rolled off and clattered upon the floor.

Roslin paid it no mind, pale glowing eyes focused on Zanarin and Zanarin alone.

The redhead cried raggedly beneath him, scratched lines in his pristine table top and Roslin adored him for it.

Every cry, every desperate gesture, reminded him what it was to be alive again.

Such a splendid sensation that was; as shockingly good as leaping into an icy pool during the heat of summer. Sweet as dark, lush chocolate.

That Zanarin pushed his hips back and spread himself wider was the cherry on top.

If Roslin had a heart it would be skipping.

Those sounds! The sensual curve of his back, the splay of his body in offering. Roslin sharply picked up the pace, cock slamming home, rooting to the hilt with each inward push.

Moans and raw cries dropped against the table, Zanarin's free hand digging furrows into the grain. Upthrusting his hips, he pushed back to meet Roslin’s pitiless thrusts. Each time he sank deep sent shudders skittering up his body, curled his toes. Ecstasy washed over him, drowned out his cries as he shook. Sizzled under his skin and made each tiny motion a hundred times more intense. Pleasure had him by the throat, body slumping in the cage of Roslin's large hands.

“Oh...oh Pet…” Roslin groaned, flanks quivering, hips stuttering through each vice and squeeze. He brought Zanarin back hard against him by his grip on his wrist and back, other hand gripping the nape of his neck and held him firm. His own pleasure followed in another thick gush, an overflow that dribbled out around the girth of him.

Zanarin moaned helplessly against the tabletop, glassy eyed and shaken.

The ache in his loins had been replaced with a delicious throb. He slumped, unable to keep his hips up any longer. 

Large hands released their grip on him and passed over his prone form; swept over his back and sides, across the round of a buttock and back upward again.

Zanarin sighed, lashes low. 

That was nice… 

His touch inspired fizzles of pleasure, little pops and shivers. Zanarin allowed him to keep petting as long as he wished if only to preserve that wonderful sensation.

Roslin drew him up against his chest; cupped him close to the warmth of his lean torso and nuzzled his maw in against soft curls. 

Zanarin sank in against him, limp as a rag doll. He tucked his face in against the heat of the mage, did not protest being carted away from the table.

“I am not your pet…” he mumbled sleepily.

“Ah, yes, well let me pretend.” Roslin chuckled against the top of his head. 

“Where are we going?”

Zanarin blinked at passing walls, renewed tapestries. They were walking up the stairs, further down halls then he had dared to go before and up another spiraling staircase that disappeared up into inky black.

“I am taking you to bed.” Roslin said. “I drained much of your strength.”

He was not wrong; Zanarin felt limp as an overcooked noodle and moving was not a task he could fathom accomplishing. 

Zanarin huffed against the mage's shoulder and kneaded his claws against the odd gummy texture of his flesh. It was a surprise when he realized between being plucked up and carried away Roslin had cleaned up his mess.

Not a hint of stickiness between his thighs.

A considerate action, or perhaps a selfish one given the bed that Zanarin found himself lowered into was likely Roslin's own. He must have been very busy with repairs for this room was absolutely pristine. From the rich hues of carpet, bedding and drapery to the decor, this was every inch a mage's room. Strange nick nacks hung on the walls or rested on shelves; bone, shell and stone. It would seem the study was not the only place to have such strange decorations.

The bedding he sunk into was copper and blue, soft as a cloud and as he lay out Roslin settled in upon the bed with him, his massive frame sinking the mattress and rolling Zanarin in against his side. 

He looked about, vaguely amused that the bed was draped with thick curtains and was more ornate then was likely needed. 

Roslin draped around him, nuzzled his boney face against his hair, along his neck. He rattled softly deep in his throat. Pleased as could be.

“Still not your pet…” Zanarin murmured, yawned. 

“Mnn.” Roslin hummed and licked at the curve of a pec.

“Don't push your luck.” he blinked groggily at that boney maw. Something so strange looking shouldn't be acting so… endearing.

He did not know at what point he fell asleep but morning came quickly and with a light tinted golden by the curtains surrounding the bed. Zanarin woke alone tangled in the bedding, bleary and confused. 

By the bedside his clothing sat neatly folded with his sword laid across. All his things, not a one missing.

Zanarin stood and dressed, took in the room and wondered where his ‘host’ had wandered off to? 

It did not matter, he had to remind himself, for there were duties back home to perform and he just did not have the time to fully puzzle out this strange situation he had found himself in.

Leaving the room he slunk down the stairs. Alone, not a damn thing to be seen, no sign of Roslin or anything for that matter. Just an empty, quiet place.

“He certainly doesn't stick around…” Zanarin clucked wryly, a faint smile tugging at the edge of his wide mouth.

Empty halls, empty chambers. Zanarin was left with the question of what to expect from his strange so called ‘Master’.

He sniffed dismissively.

“He's in for more than he bargained for if he thinks I'll ever be a passive little pet.” 

Zanarin smirked, dropped down into his shadows and back home in one fluid shift. He paced across the polished wood flooring and out the door; work awaited.

He adjusted his sword on his hip, fingers flexing around the leather grip.

Yes, much more than he bargained for.


End file.
